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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385526">lets get this bred</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/phadedphoque/pseuds/phadedphoque'>phadedphoque</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rick and Morty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Breeding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Incest, M/M, Other, Watersports, Xenophilia, beastiality, dubcon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:15:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/phadedphoque/pseuds/phadedphoque</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is going on a monster hunt and Morty just can't keep up...!</p>
<p>I've created a monster, nobody wants to see Rick no more, they want Morty, Rick's chopped liver!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lets get this bred</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Ouch!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Morty glances down just in time to see a particularly dangerous thorned plant wither away. Before his exclamation has even had the chance to leave his mouth, he’s sure that whatever poison it possessed has already made it halfway through his bloodstream. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“By the way, hopefully I don’t have to say this </span>
  <em>
    <span>-urp-</span>
  </em>
  <span> but DON'T, don’t</span>
  <em>
    <span> touch</span>
  </em>
  <span> anything!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hides his finger behind his back, though Rick probably doesn’t care enough to notice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders what rules the thing that’s just bit him is playing by, whether it’s bee law: where the infector is rendered null and void and he’ll need to pull out some sort of infection later, or closer along the lines of a spider, where whatever hurt him has survived and will only be back for more. Happenings like these can’t always be boiled down to the way things are on Earth, not always following along the laws of nature laid out for him from various NatGeo documentaries, or even the schemas of worlds he would have written off as fantasy years ago. He does find, however, they are strangely helpful in figuring out what approach to use in various types of emergency situations. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He continues to trek along, strangely unperturbed despite being on the cusp of his own downfall. It’s a wonder how he still hasn’t developed a sense for his own doom yet, his face reverting from annoyed discomfort back to its signature “what can possibly go wrong!” default. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t much longer though until he starts to worry, the “what” in what could possibly go wrong starts coming to a head. While the two continue to wander through, he begins to sweat profusely and a foggy faint feeling clouds his head. He wants to blame it on the humidity of the jungle so he does, despite knowing that very likely it isn’t.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Riiiick... how much longer—?” it’s a trademark complaint of his but if Rick was actually listening he’d have been able to detect the faint nervousness in his voice. He’s not though (surely never is) and continues his icy ignoration. In the silence Morty’s anxieties double, his apprehension left to simmer in his overactive imagination. Maybe he is starting to lose it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Next he starts to feel itchy, relentlessly so. His unsatisfying attempts at scratching every square centimeter of his body doing nothing to help. He’s getting hot, feels it in his arms like he’s wearing a coat he can’t take off. He stares at the hair on his arms-- was it always that thick? It becomes apparent that it wasn’t, when a fine fur starts to thicken on his hands. He can’t help but think of the old wives' tale pertaining to hairy palms and impious acts: He wonders if this phenomenon is directly related to his current predicament or if, by coincidence, god chose today to smite him. He grimaces at the thought and continues to let his stubborn streak get the better of him, refusing to ask Rick for the help he knows he needs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His stomach starts to growl. He’s already slowed down enough that Rick is yards in front of him. He figures stopping for a snack won’t put him too much more behind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sets his bag down and rifles through it for an emergency granola bar or two, or six, or a dozen. God these things are </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he continues to scarf them down. What happened to all of them? He thought he’d packed at least a family size box’s worth (always worth having should an adventure take longer than planned). Maybe it’s because his bag is so small, come to think of it, was it always this small? He looks down at his hands to discover they’re not hands anymore, they’ve been replaced with padded claws.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cries out to Rick, finally realizing how pertinent getting help is. Instead, his pleas escape his throat as a harrowing howl </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick’s ears perk up at the sound in the distance, the unmistakable call of his prize.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mo-oooorty! You hear that! It, It’s close!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He whips around to grab a hold of his companion to find the trail behind him empty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sighing, he opens up his flask and takes a sip before tallying up his tasks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Great. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Now he’s got to save Morty from this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s hunting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shuffles his pack higher onto his shoulders and makes his way through the alien jungle. The thing in question that he’s looking for is the rare species called a Tasmanian were-devil. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s typical stone-age era worship: people from whatever planet-6 value their semen, thought to have aphrodisiac value. Understandable they would think that, considering how proportionately huge their cocks are to the rest of their body. They’re said to be a dormant species of plant-animal hybrid, the type of thing that only happens once every 40 Earth years: they enter a mating cycle that makes them completely fiendish. It’s built a myth about the were-devil, rendered it to semi-legendary status, even worshipped as a god of fertility by the particularly feeble-minded. Not much is known about them, he’s hoping to collect himself a good sample and even maybe catch one for himself. If there’s anything Rick loved more than ruining the image of a god it’s good old fashioned xenophilia. He’s no stranger to down and dirty alien fucking, considers this a chance to add another trophy to his collection. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The weredevil is the priority. Morty, wherever he might be, probably isn’t too far from where Rick left him. He hopes he’s not a complete imbecile and has stayed put on the trail so that he can track him down later. He continues to stalk through the woods, natural to a predator like himself, a net gun he’d crafted himself in tow. He wants the thing alive and well. Certainly not planning on harming it enough to kill it (though he would have no qualms if it came down to it), just trying to subdue it enough to give him a good jerking, at least.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Morty continues his panicked rampage through this uncharted jungle he’s been tossed into, equally anxious and hopeful to find Rick. He’s naked now, torn out of his clothes and for the most part fur has covered his body. His biggest grievance aside from LITERALLY not being human anymore is that his wiener is now comically large, exposed and flopping around while he sprints along on all fours.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rick is going to be so sore when he finds him, his dick out and around in the wind like a jackass. If only he’d been more careful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mind begins to fog even more, the overwhelming amount of whatever he’d been bitten with coursing throughout the entirety of his bloodstream. He begins to lose himself, his new body awkward and confusing, his memories blurred. He’s plagued by the nagging idea of something bigger him, thoughts in the primordial goo of his newfound id. Something he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do, his whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>raison d’etre</span>
  </em>
  <span> and somehow, he’s forgotten what it is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Morty enters a clearing in the forest, taking but a moment to compose himself and remember, remember, </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember</span>
  </em>
  <span> what he is, what it is that he needs to do.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then, he’s not alone in the clearing anymore, a strange, gangly looking person approaches from the bushes </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick coos and the beast is reminded of something safe, reminds him that he needs to be somewhere, reminds him of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>purpose: </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s supposed to be breeding. Of course! The most important thing he can do is propagate his species.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He freezes, not sure what to do about this man. He continues whispering soft things Morty can’t quite understand but he trusts for some reason. He supposes it’s instinctual and continues to let the man get closer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There, th</span>
  <em>
    <span>-euuugh-</span>
  </em>
  <span>there,” the man continues to say, small platitudes that mean nothing but feel good. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a quick set of sly maneuvers, Rick gets the net out and traps the were-devil.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Haha you—you, stupid animal that was too easy!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick kicks him over onto his back and he struggles against the wires. How pathetic of him, trapped: and so easily! He feels betrayed, why is this nice man hurting him now?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His cock flips over along with him, big and hardening. How embarrassing, so easily aroused! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man touches him roughly, too rough for his pink-tinged member. He’s so confused why he’s touching him there, is hurting him not enough? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“E-e-easy, now, buddy” Rick continues to coo in that sickly sweet voice. Morty kicks his legs in a flustered array of distress and one of his feet kicks Rick in the stomach. The man falls on his back hard and grunts. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why I oughta—“ </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The net lights up with electricity and all the hair on Morty’s body stand at attention, his nerve ends singed and burning </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets out a mean, angry growl, instincts telling him to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, defensive now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But no matter how he turns and tosses and tries to get free the pain from the horrible lightning continues as the bad man continues to touch him. Morty’s and his wit's end: he no longer knows who he is, what he’s feeling, or how to make it stop. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man procures something from his pack, a tube-shaped device. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man puts the tube over Morty’s dick and it begins to pump and suck. It’s strange and embarrassingly it feels good at first until it becomes way too tight around how hard he is. It’s too tight and it pinches and he can’t even move his paws much less take it </span>
  <em>
    <span>off.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It wrings semen out of him. He finishes into the tube that collects his sperm into a sample but they’re nowhere near done. Rick unscrews the vial and attaches another empty one. It continues on like that for another round, virtually unending torture. Tears well in the corners of his eyes as he wonders if it will ever end.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Rick takes a swig from his flask. He always feels a strange sort of high before he fucks a new species, a blend of anxiety and excitement. He wonders if he’s addicted to adrenaline. He starts drinking to loosen up: a hot new date awaits him. He kicks off his pants and his underwear, scooting them to a pile on the side. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The beast whines in exhaustion, waiting for the torment to be over. Morty’s cock is aching, he just wants his strange, shameful anatomy to go back down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, the man releases his cock from the tube, only to continue to stroke it back to full mast. He kicks his legs around in protest but the man just shocks him again, hurts him into submission. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick climbs atop the beast and balances himself over the huge devil cock, feels the shadow of it at his backside. He pulls lube from his coat, hoping for this moment all along. He wouldn’t fuck in front of his grandson but then again: he does have ways of making the boy forget. He pushes out, and slicks his hole with a glob of the stuff as he pushes out and pokes a bit of it inside of himself. He squeezes around air, trying to suck it up into himself as far as he can, knowing it’s going to be a long ride-- literally. The narrower tip stretches at his asshole and he revels in the burn of the expansion. Just as he breaches the head through his hole, it happens. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a careless mistake, he took his eyes off the thing for only the handful of seconds it takes to grab and twist off his flask. He feels the beast’s huge cock ram into him, too much, too big, too quick and grunts, guttural but loving the feeling. He feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>full</span>
  </em>
  <span> and already he knows the telltale signs of an aphrodisiac running through his system. He wonders if he can use this, turn it into a product, frantically taking notes on sensational discoveries, classification, inquiry. It’s not long before the science quickly muddles to hormonal, filling, bliss.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before he realizes what’s happening, he’s pinned to the ground, his arms marked up from the indentation of sharp claws. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Morty’s tuned into his newfound predatory abilities. Though he’s already come so many times, he’s raring and ready to go he holds down the cruel man’s arms, fuelled by his anger. Sharp fangs bite into his sweater and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>OFF</span>
  </em>
  <span> like mosquito spray. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, oh fu</span>
  <em>
    <span>-uuurp-fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick groans, thinking about how much that’s gonna hurt him later but right now he’s getting it so good he can’t even mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You, you gotta ‘nother thing c </span>
  <em>
    <span>-uurp-</span>
  </em>
  <span> coming if you think you’re gonna get me--!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks that maybe, if he’s lucky, he can shame the beast into submission.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick hears his back crack as the thing raises his legs higher, lifting his hips in ways he didn’t think was possible for his body anymore. He’s still trying to act in control, thinking about how it’s important to act bigger than lions and tigers and bears. It sure is tough talk but he’s always been too big for his britches. He knows a sharp tongue is sometimes more useful than a sharp knife.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now that he’s completely naked, it’s easy for him to see the bulge in his stomach, he can feel the cock poking inside all the way to the inside of his bellybutton, tortuously tickling. It’s good, deliriously so. This is the high he lives for, the near-death adrenaline tangling with his own orgasm. He feels himself come all over his stomach and lets the beast continue its business.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the thing really adjusts, the bony part of its ass now on top of humping Rick’s own. He fucks him like an animal, really good and truly, Nine Inch Nails style. He’s folded in half in a mating press, his knees next to his ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick isn’t nearly as young as he used to be, the thing fucking him has no respect for his wellbeing, an ironic twist of fate as he’s usually the remorseless one. Just as he doesn’t think he can get any bigger he feels his hole expand. A knot, he suspects, quite in line for a creature like this. The whole thing almost feels like a present in a strange way, a new toy that keeps unveiling new secrets. The beast keens and humps him, small, little whines in time with it’s now softer thrusts. When it begins to lick him all over, Rick wonders if he’s about to be eaten. He supposes he’d deserve it, and again, it wouldn’t be the first monster stomach he’s had to cut his way out of. It turns out to be a tender gesture instead, the gentle tongue seeming to clean and lick over the wounds he’d accrued during their session. It riles up something inside of him, the sensation of a rough tongue on his skin, particularly over his nipples and spent groin. But there’s something else he can’t quite but his finger on that the licking entices within him, akin to that of a mother cat cleaning her kitten. He wills himself to stop thinking of such pleasantries before he pukes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When it’s over and the thing holds him tight and panting, right away Rick knows he’s been impregnated, can feel the hardness in his stomach like a rock. It’s not his first rodeo, he can count on two hands how many times he’s been knocked up by aliens, but never by a species where he didn’t know exactly what was going to happen. He can’t describe himself as nervous, nor does he want to: it’s certainly not an adjective befitting of the universe’s smartest, sluttiest man. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He recognizes the telltale aphrodisiac rush he gets from his seasoned past as a xenophilic connoisseur, a sensation he hasn’t felt in so long, too long. It’s laughable he thinks, the way he goes through species like drugs, always looking for a new high to test out, the low-risk high-reward of actual contraband not good enough, needing the real risk now as a testament to his immortality. Exhausted but sensing no real threat, he falls asleep still knotted in the arms of the monster, with a promise of dealing with it in the morning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the early morning purgatory between sleep and wakefulness, he finds himself worrying about Morty. He’s sad to lose him but not admitting it to himself, won’t let the thought fully form in his subconscious mind. He thinks about the last time he’d gotten separated on a mission like this. This time it was Morty that'd been taken to be used as collateral. It’s not that he’s particularly worth much, a standard Morty costs about the same as a full day at Blitz &amp; Chitz, though to anyone other than a Rick it would be hard to tell. It’d been early on before they'd been attached, when he’d first come back and tried to play the nice grandpa act. Comparatively, so much time has passed, so many hours clocked into their relationship like a game he just can’t quit. He hates to admit it but he’s gotten used to having the kid around. It’s made him weak and he hates himself for it. Maybe it’s whatever parasite he’s been infected with must be fucking with his mind but he’s getting sentimental, emotional: doesn’t think he’ll make it out of this one alive. What a stupid way to go: death by alien fucking. He supposes it’s one of the more common ways to go as far as Rick deaths are concerned but he never thought it would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Although, nobody ever does, do they? (He’d be willing to bet his death inside of a cage would have been more likely). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s woken up from a groggy, overdosed sleep to the feeling of something slick at his asshole. Already he knows it’s the thing’s tongue yet he doesn’t move away, doesn’t even bother trying to move. It works him up again using that oh so skilled tongue and opens him up. He feels the stretch again of that enormous monster cock but unlike last time it’s so sweet and gentle and loving. The thing uses Rick like a cock warmer, keening, needy whines. He almost feels bad for the thing.  He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill</span>
  </em>
  <span> the thing, he could and wouldn’t have any remorse. Whatever’s literally gotten into him is fucking with his brain, parasites inside of him making him soft and weak, so easy just to blame the drugs: old habits die hard, he supposes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rests on big soft arms and falls asleep satisfied by the weight resting inside of his stomach, doubled from whatever’s being incubated inside of him. It’s overwhelmingly warm now, in a way that he hasn’t been in a while, inside and out. Another feeling he tries to make note of for his records, ever trying to make the sale. conceding to take the hit to his own ego, he falls asleep again, reminding himself that he can write his own record of the event: nobody will ever have to know how </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the one who was tamed by the beast.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His new wife is gorgeous, a specimen with a long cavity, so warm and perfect for their spawn. He’s so excited and yet bashful about their consummation. He every so softly plays with the hole of his beloved, toying, tickling tenderly. He takes his time stretching it, uses drool from his long tongue to lubricate his growing cock. He hugs the vessel close to his chest, trying to be the best daddy he can be to keep his nest warm. He holds on like his life depends on it, probably does, knows instinctively through the ghosts of neurons haunting his brain. He too, is only a vessel, today: just another phase in the life cycle of a god. (All scientifically explainable, sure.) He cups the paunch in Rick's tight stomach, trying to be oh so gentle with his sharp claws he’s still clumsy with, unused to the body: The tango between the possessée and the possessor. He settles in with his beloved and prepares to sleep, knowing in his primordial brain that he’ll need the rest for the intensity in store for the two of them later.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up to shifting around in his stomach and he holds on tight in an attempt to still the sensations. His life might as well be Lethal Weapon because he’s certainly getting too old for this shit. Despite their titanium makeup, his bones still feel too brittle and aching, the pressure from his stomach making him wonder if </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>will be his untimely demise. On no volition of his own he feels what seems to be the most violent shit he’s ever taken push through his asshole. He grunts and groans especially loud while the thing that’s knocked him up does nothing, pettily trying to guilt this clueless animal. He narrows his eyes in loathing at it and all it does it look back with big sad brown eyes, helpless. The thing licks his butthole in a sorry attempt to do something, it probably helps more than Rick would admit. He feels something pointy breech his asshole that feels like it’s on fire and the stretch only widens: always so much worse coming out than it is going in. He digs his hands into the fur of the arms, so small in comparison to his own hands. He never feels small and it’s so off and unusual but it’s not necessarily a bad thing and he hates that he likes it. Thankfully, he can’t spend much time worrying about that now, he has more important things to tend to. Feeling like he’s about to tear in half, he assumes a wide-legged position and heaves. The stretch is nearly unbearable and when he’s not exerting every one of his weary muscles to bear down whatever progress he’s made comes undone and it slips back inside of him. He’s beyond frustrated and wonders if he should MacGyver himself an episiotomy with a swiss army knife he could cut it out of himself with.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>To his relief and detriment, after the first half-inch he feels bumps on the edges, each little ridge popping from out under the edge of his sphincter, all of the nerves there so sensitive and stretched beyond their limit: every little motion ten, no, 100 fold more noticeable. The thing whimpers in worry, probably instinctively knowing its spawn is at stake. It continues to lick at the base of the thing splitting him open. At first, it’s more of an irritant than anything but the repetition becomes numbing against the edges of his hole feeling stretched beyond their limit. The monster makes it’s tongue under his rim only to push him even further. He tries to adjust himself to have his hips wide enough to make way for the thing breaching him open. The alien takes note, uses its body to support the spread-out stance.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s taking an impossibly long time, the thing must only be going millimeter by millimeter. He’s so grateful Morty isn’t here to see him. He thinks about how gloriously shameful it would be to have him watch him, unbalanced, squatting, weak, pathetic. He wouldn’t want the boy thinking it’s ok for him to do, doesn't want him to get addicted to the feeling like he has. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally the thing reaches the peak of it’s crowning, and it’s over as quickly as the slip up that started it. It pops out of his asshole with a quick gush, likely whatever semen and stomach matter came out with it, feeling disgusting as it drips down his leg.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thing keeps licking at his asshole, clearly the only thing it’s good for, tenderly trying to heal the damage. Rick’s pissed off about it but it serves a purpose, he supposes. This dumb animal doesn’t know what it’s doing. And strangely, he feels taken care of, something he hasn’t felt in a while. He’s sore but he feels rejuvenated, youthful. Again, he takes note of these things, cynically logging them for marketability. And yet, he wonders if it’s an actual side effect or a genuine emotion. He supposes he’d need to do some market testing before it’s for sale.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He inspects the egg, and on closer look, it appears to be more like a seed if anything.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The animal finds a patch of foliage not too far away, digs into it like a farmer sowing in preparation of the crop. It’s endearing to watch the thing be so careful and calculating, trying to get the nest just right. It nudges the seed into the hole and covers it up, gently, like one would a sleeping child. It lies over it, protecting it with its body. Then, to Rick’s appallment, it lifts its hind legs and starts pissing on the freshly lifted dirt. The more it releases, the more it begins to morph into something more familiar and it starts to dawn on him: the soft brown curls, dorky demeanor, big pitiful eyes. By the time the beast is done emptying its bladder, all that’s left of it is his stupid, soggy grandson, fast asleep. Five meters away Rick slaps his face into his palms and groans, the two of them bare ass naked, two egg on face fools.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ugh, just his <em>fucking luck</em>. Of <em>course</em> it would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Morty</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What kind of awful, Gift of the Magi shit is this? He takes his sweet time getting dressed, rueing and steaming in his own misery for having been </span>
  <em>
    <span>gotten</span>
  </em>
  <span> so good. He repacks himself from their little impromptu camping adventure. He saves his infuriating little twerp of a grandson for last, trying to blow off as much steam as he can, working up the courage before taking care of him. He looks down at his still passed out face, drool coming out of Morty’s mouth. It reminds him of himself, and he laughs. Maybe now are the good days, when a man can be more than just himself: he can be a scientist, a grandpa, a lover. The kid looks stupid but in a good way, the way that makes his stomach do a little flip. He’d never admit it but in a rare moment of empathy, he concedes to forget why he was so mad, tacking up a point for the latter on the tally of him versus fate. He wonders if this is his fading high or real emotion. It’s hard to tell with the tail end of the aphrodisiac running through his veins. He hoists Morty up and over his shoulder and makes his way back to the ship. He tosses a blanket over the kid’s naked body before hopping into the passenger’s seat and taking off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick opens one eye at an autopilot induced nap, waking up at Morty’s small screech. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“W-w-what happened? Why, why am I-- n-n-naked??”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rick lowers his brow and his eye, feeling himself smize on the inside. He doesn’t even remember what happened. Fine by him, less work for later. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just the usual rigamarole, you fu</span>
  <em>
    <span>-uuurp-</span>
  </em>
  <span>cked up, got lost, made a fool of yourself, pissed your pants and passed out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Morty feels his clammy thighs and pales as he figures out Rick is right.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“O-oh. s-sorry”, he apologizes, voice even smaller and more pathetic than usual. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, maybe, maybe next time you’ll remember not to </span>
  <em>
    <span>-urrrp-</span>
  </em>
  
  <em>
    <span>touch</span>
  </em>
  <span> anything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Moooorty.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i am... SO SORRY LOL.... </p>
<p>this is March's breeding fic prompt. I made so many awful puns/pop culture references in this that i truly feel like dave strider possessed me to write this. in any event, thanks to everyone who has supported me! this was NOT easy to write, and i kind of conceded to give up before March ended (which is weird because breeding is usually one of my faves!) <br/>If you liked this or any of my other works, please feel free to follow me on twitter @freder1ckfry, kudos always appreciated and comments ALWAYS adored!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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